True Colors
by Elephas
Summary: The Healers blatantly ignored him. No sense in spending time and money to save a patient for later execution. Better to let him die now. Better for everyone concerned. COMPLETE.
1. Fade to White

Half-Blood Prince Spoilers. You are warned. Standard Disclaimer applies - it's all JKR's.

* * *

The patient had been shunted to a forgotten corner of the ward. They hadn't really wanted him here, either, but since he had been extradited from some god-forsaken hell-hole in New Zealand, and in that part of the world there seemed to be a bit more of a concern for what they termed 'human rights', the Aurory had deemed it best to at least provide some semblance of care. Even to a traitorous murderer like him. He wasn't worth an international incident. 

He had put up a fierce fight when cornered, but it had been a dozen against one – it was a miracle he had survived at all. The last of the Death Eaters. It had been four years since the world had been rid of Tom Riddle. One by one, Magical Law Enforcement had hunted down the remaining 'war criminals', until only one was left.

They had tracked him down, finally, and now he was here. Dumped on a cot, his insides scrambled like so many eggs, most of the bones in his lower body broken. The Healers blatantly ignored him – no sense in spending money and time to save a patient for later execution. Better to let him die now. Better for everyone concerned. So they all busied themselves with their work and nicer people and tried to forget about the semi-conscious, fading man at the end of the hall.

All of them, except one. She didn't know why she found herself drifting over to the otherwise empty room where they had left him. Her shift was finished, and by the time she went back on duty tomorrow, it would surely be all over for him.

And yet, there she was, opening the door, cautiously sitting down on a stool next to his cot.

He hadn't changed much. Strands of long, greasy black hair still fell around his sallow face. His lips tinged blue, the area around his mouth and hooked nose a sickly grey, he looked paler than ever.

It was obvious that he was in agony. His body was held artificially rigid, stiff, as if the slightest movement would cause intolerable pain. His head was tilted backwards, his eyes closed, his breathing measured, quick and shallow.

She didn't know where the feeling came from, but there was a sudden sense of unbearable wrongness. She was a Healer, for God's sake. She had sworn an oath. So he would die, but he did not need to die like _this_.

When she returned to the room a few minutes later, she held a small, sky-blue vial in her hand. She lifted his head gently. "Drink this. It will help with the pain."

His eyes opened suddenly and looked into hers, deep, hard, suspicious. Finally, there was an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, as if to say 'what does it matter'. His lips unclenched, and he let her tip the vial against his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty.

"Nothing I can do will take the pain away entirely," she said. "But it will help."

He turned his head by a fraction of an inch, staring at her. "What do you care?" he asked harshly, dismissively, his voice a raw rasp.

She looked at him, one corner of her mouth curling down. "Honestly? I don't know," she said bitterly. "Call it a basic Healer flaw. I can't stand to see anyone suffer. Even you."

He let his head drop back, and after a while she could see the potion taking effect. Slowly, bit by bit, the rigidity left his body, and his breathing slowed. Still, she didn't leave, remaining there as if waiting for something; what, she didn't know.

"Little Miss Know-It-All." He pushed out the words as if his throat hurt.

She had not, until then, realized he had recognized her.

"Still…an idealist, I see." She recognized the sneer that accompanied those gasping words, even if it was a faint shadow of its former glory.

"Just doing my job," she said coolly.

Suddenly, a spasm seized him, and he lurched, arching his back, making horrible gasping noises as he tried to stifle the pain. Before she knew what she was doing, she had slipped an arm around his shoulders, holding him, supporting him against the pain, making soothing noises that accomplished nothing but let him know he wasn't alone. When the spasm passed, she pulled back suddenly, horrified.

This was Severus Snape, for heaven's sake.

Death Eater, top of the Ministry's Most Wanted list for the last five years. The man who had killed Dumbledore, killed him when the old wizard was defenseless and weakened. Coward. Traitor. Murderer. Someone who deserved every drop of suffering that fate meted out to him. What, for crying out loud, did she think she was doing?

He turned his head away, too, as soon as she let go, and to her abject horror, she saw that he was crying. Soundless, silent tears, slipping over his rigid cheeks as if he regretted each one of them but was powerless to hold them back.

Against every instinct, against her will, even, she found herself reaching for his hand.

"_Don't touch me_," he ground out. "Just leave."

She didn't leave. For the next few hours, as the night grew longer, she stayed by his side, not knowing why. Maybe it was because the image of the Potions master, sometimes respected, always disliked, still lingered stronger than the image of the Death Eater. She had missed his flight from Hogwarts, and after that, it had been hooded men in masks, one much like the other, nameless, faceless.

For six years, she had tried to please him. For six years, she had trusted him, at least most of the time, never supposing for more than a few moments that Dumbledore could be wrong about him. A few shadowy images, she supposed, hadn't been able to completely erase the other pictures of him from her mind.

He asked her, after a few hours.

"Why are you… still here?" How a man in so much pain could still put that much contempt into a few words, she didn't know.

She shrugged her shoulders helplessly, not really knowing the answer to that question. "I suppose," she said hesitantly, "it's because I know you."

"_Know me_." He spat the words out so bitterly she looked up, startled. If she hadn't looked up right that second, she would have missed it. The look of unbearable pain, unimaginable suffering. But she caught it.

In a second, she was sitting on the edge of his cot. "Let me help you," she said, feeling helpless herself, her hand on his shoulder. No one should die like this.

"_Help me." _He stared at her for a long second, and then he laughed harshly, a laugh that sounded like it hurt. "Fine, then." A second later, his hand had grasped the side of her face tightly, his fingers pushing into her hair. "_Legilimens."_

She could feel his presence in her mind, cold, hard, and knew that she could do nothing about it. Helplessly, unable to fight back, she waited, for him to take over, to take her mind, to destroy her, as he had destroyed everything he had ever touched.

And waited.

And then she felt his mind pull back, slowly, as if in invitation, as if begging her to follow. She did, hesitantly, and she felt him leading her back, tenuously following the line that connected him to her.

And then she was in his thoughts, in his memories, seeing what he had seen, feeling what he had felt.

_Taking the Mark, searing pain slicing through his arm…  
__Standing helplessly next to Voldemort, in front of a red-haired woman begging for her baby to live…  
Looking at Harry, consumed with hatred for the child that had cost the woman he had loved her life…  
Fear, loathing, as the Mark flared back to life after lying dormant for years…  
"You know what I must ask of you…"  
"_Crucio_!"…  
Kneeling in front of a woman, taking a Vow…  
"I can't do this any more, Headmaster. You are asking too much..."  
Dumbledore's fatherly hand on his shoulder – "You must kill me when the time comes, there is no other way. To protect Harry, you must stay in your place. Do it for Lily."…__  
Blue eyes locking with his – "_Severus, please_…"  
Casting the curse, hating himself and the old wizard equally…  
Clandestinely passing information to the Order for over a year…  
Killing Fenrir Greyback in the last battle, then fleeing before the Aurors could kill him in turn…  
Years spent living on the run, always alone…  
The decision to stop running, that enough was enough…_

The memories came fast and furious, hitting her one after another, shifting again before she had time to assimilate what she had just seen.

"He made you do it." She pulled back, stood up, her back braced against the wall, crying helplessly. "He ordered you to kill him. Why did you never tell anyone?"

"Who…would have wanted… to believe me?" His breathing was becoming labored.

Hermione still stood against the wall, shaking, crying.

"Forgive me," he rasped out. A thin trickle of blood became visible at the corner of his mouth. "A weakness, I know…but… I suppose…I just wanted one person in the world…to not think ill of me…as I die."

She had pulled out her wand, frantically muttering incantations. His eyes closed. "No," she shouted, kneeling down next to him. "It's not fair." At those words, a faint smile appeared on his face. He looked oddly at peace.

Her voice, crying, calling out for him, coming from far away as if through thick cotton wool, was the last thing he heard as the world slowly faded to white.

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This could stay a one-shot, or I have some ideas for a second chapter. Please let me know what you think – any kind of feedback is appreciated! 


	2. Coming To

He had been floating for a while now, drifting in and out of white fog and dark patches. Sometimes, he thought he heard voices, but he never was quite sure if there was really someone there or if it was only his imagination.

One time, he thought he recognized the voice that was speaking. _Harry Potter, the 'Chosen One'_. Drifting lazily through space, he thought with detached amusement that if the hereafter involved the voice of Harry Potter, God had a mighty peculiar sense of humor. But then, it probably meant he had been sent to the Other Place – a distinct possibility, given the way he had lived…

He strained to listen.

"_So you are saying the git isn't guilty? I tell you, I was there. I know what I saw. That's just fact, Hermione."_

_"Well, we wouldn't want the truth to get in the way of your 'facts' now, would we?" the voice of a girl snapped back. "Talk to Scrimgeour. I'm sure you will be able to get an audience with him."_

"_Scrimgeour? What the hell has he got to do with anything?" _

"_Honestly, Harry, I don't have time now. It's still touch and go. I'll talk to you later, ok?"_

The impatient voice of the girl faded as another patch of dark caught up with him.

oxoxoxoxo

Some time later, he became aware of the voice again, the girl's voice, trying to reach through the fog.

"Sir, can you hear me? Sir?"

Grimacing, he tried to focus.

"I think he is responding," he heard another voice, deeper, lower. "Try again."

"Sir? Professor Snape?"

_Professor_…that had been him, a long time ago, hadn't it? He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids wouldn't cooperate.

"Here, drink this, if you can." He felt something cold and hard against his lips. His mouth, he suddenly became aware, was dry, and he was quite thirsty. Yes, he wanted a drink. Simply trying to open his mouth took all his concentration. The hard thing tipped up, and then something was in his mouth, something not at all nice. He grimaced, and gagged on the bitter liquid.

"I know, it's terrible stuff, but it will make you better." There was sympathy in the voice, he noted with disjointed surprise before he drifted off again.

The next time he woke up, he came to the certain realization that he had not died. The vicious pain that pushed him to consciousness required a living, physical body, of that he was certain. A low moan escaped him, and then there was a cool hand on his forehead, and the voice of the girl muttering incantations. The pain lessened, and there was more bitter liquid, and a return to oblivion.

He could not have said how many times the cycle repeated, but over time, the lucid intervals increased until a moment came where he knew himself and his surrounding and knew that somehow, in spite of everything, he had survived. He opened his eyes warily, his eyelids still feeling heavy, and winced as the bright light made his head hurt.

"Professor." _The voice of the girl. _He groped around in murky memories. _Miss…Granger. Yes. That was right._

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His tongue felt as if it was glued to the top of his mouth, his lips dry and cracked. Instantly, a hand slipped around his neck and lifted his head slightly, and at the same time, the rim of a glass touched against his lips. He grimaced.

"It's just water this time, Professor." The voice was soothing, quiet.

The cold water ran pleasantly down his parched throat, and he drank greedily. Even so, that small action had already exhausted his supply of strength, and he fell back on the pillow gratefully, closing his eyes against the light and his returning memory.

_Why hadn't he died?_ He should by all means be dead now. He was only too aware of the extent of the injuries he had sustained. He had been so sure of certain death that he –

He flushed hot with the returning memory. He had shown her everything, memories that no one except Dumbledore had known about. Dumbledore, the wizard who had been the closest thing he had ever had to a father, the wizard he had killed, for whom he had lived the life of an outcast from that moment on. Who had trusted him, and whom he had trusted in return.

And now the girl knew. Not just the truth about what had happened, but why. _About Lily. About the reason he had become Dumbledore's man. About Godric's Hollow._

Inwardly, he cursed his dying vanity. Why had he not been content to let the truth die with him? His damnable pride, intent on leaving behind even the smallest legacy, of wanting to ensure that at least one person knew…how he regretted that moment of weakness now.

"I think he might be running a temperature again," the voice – Miss Granger's voice – said, and he felt her hand on his forehead again. "I think I should…"

He didn't hear what exactly it was she thought she should do, as he, his strength exhausted, fell back into a deep sleep.

xoxoxox

The next time he awoke, it was night. Or so he deduced from the fact that the lights in the room had been dimmed, and it was quiet on the ward. There was no window. He turned his head with difficulty, noticing that he was in a proper bed now, not the cot he had been dumped on originally. The cot was still in the room, however, and someone was sleeping on it, back turned to him.

Gingerly, he attempted to raise himself on his elbows. A stifled cry escaped him as sharp, knifelike pain shot through his chest and abdomen at the attempt. Immediately, the someone on the cot got up and hurried over.

"You shouldn't try to do that yet," she said reproachfully, brushing bushy hair back from her face and eyes. "You have been quite ill, and you're still far from well." With practiced hands, she settled him back on the pillow.

"What are you doing here, Granger?" To his satisfaction, his voice, even though it was still rough and raspy, had obviously decided to cooperate this time around.

To his surprise she flushed. "I work here," she said, not meeting his eyes. "I am a Healer now."

_That much, he had figured out. That was not what he had meant._ "Is it customary for hospital staff to sleep in the patients's rooms now? How very touching." His harsh words were accompanied by a weak sneer. _More likely that the Ministry had ordered him under constant surveillance_.

She ignored his comment and put her hand on his forehead again. He turned his head away irritably, dislodging her hand in the process. "Well, it sure looks like you are feeling better," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

He looked at her with resentment. The smile on her face died away.

There was, then, a look of pity in her eyes that made his face burn again. He had, for just a moment, hoped that the recollection he had of sharing his memories with her had been part of his fever-induced delusions, but that look on her face put that feeble hope to rest once and for all. Nothing else could explain that soft, pitying look, aimed at the most hated man in the post-Voldemort wizarding world.

Even worse, looking into her eyes, he saw that she knew exactly what he was thinking at the moment.

"Don't worry," she said softly. "I won't tell anyone. Not about that, at least."

_Not about Lily,_ was what she meant, he knew. _Not about that pathetic, hopeless love he had harbored for so many year; the scrawny, ugly, greasy boy in love with the most popular, pretty girl in school. _If she had laughed at his ridiculous ambitions, it would have been easier to take than the pity he saw instead. If only he had his wand, he could Obliviate her…but that recourse was denied him. In mortification, he turned his face towards the empty wall on the other side of the bed.

* * *

As you can see, I have decided to continue this and make it a full-fledged story. It should not turn out too terribly long. Lunch-hours at work don't give me too much time to write. ;o) 

Many, many thanks to everyone who has reviewed! I am completely bowled over by your many positive comments. Answers to some questions/comments: _Folk _- I do think he was in love with Lily, and that that fact will feature prominently in the last book. I'll eat my wizard hat if it doesn't. ;o) _Possum_ - you and I both! _Elfmage_ - thanks, that made me blush. Hope it will still work for you as a longer story.

For everyone who voted to continue this - well, here you are. And _susand1831 - _you got your wish :o)


	3. Truce

The girl looked at the back of his turned head with sympathy. But how do you help someone who doesn't want to be helped?

She stood undecidedly for a moment, her heart clenching for him. When he had let her into his mind, she hadn't just seen, she had felt. The terror, the guilt, the inhuman pain of what he had had to do. The loneliness that had followed, that had always been there, really, but had been alleviated by the valued role he had played as a member of Hogwarts' staff and as a member of the Order of the Phoenix. "It was almost like having friends." She couldn't remember where she had heard the words. Something Neville had repeated to her? But they fit. Not that they had really cared about him, any of them except Dumbledore. But there had been a certain, if uneasy, level of comradeship and common purpose.

And then there had been nothing to keep him except for the truth, which he had hugged to himself like a blanket: that he had done the right thing, at horrendous cost, that he at least knew himself not to be the murderous traitor everyone else had thought him. And cold comfort it had been.

She sat down in the chair next to him.

"Sir?"

No answer.

"Would you like a potion? To help you get back to sleep? Is the pain getting worse?"

"What I would like, Miss Granger, is to be relieved of your irritating presence." The words came out in a sharp hiss, through clenched teeth. "Surely there must be someone else who can perform your duties?"

"I have asked for leave of absence to look after you," she said quietly. "It's the least I can do."

"How very kind of you, but I shall have to decline that privilege," he sneered. "I insist you find a replacement. The sooner, the better."

Hermione could feel the resentment bubble up inside her. She had saved his life, for crying out loud. He'd be dead without her. She had spent every moment of the last four days at his bedside, and this was the thanks she was getting? She swallowed hard, trying to banish the anger. He couldn't know what had happened. He had hardly been lucid at all over the last few days.

"You died, you know," she said conversationally as she stood and tucked the sheet back in around his rigid shape. "We had to resuscitate you twice. It is almost a miracle that you made it."

"How pleased you must be to have kept me alive for the Dementor's kiss." His voice, weak as it was, dripped acid.

That's right. He didn't know about _that_ yet, either. Hermione firmly putting the lid on her annoyance. One couldn't really blame him. If anyone were entitled to be in a bad mood for the rest of his life, it would be him. And why _should_ he be grateful. After all, how many lives had he saved without ever receiving a word of thanks from anyone?

"You won't have to worry about that, I think," she said lightly,

The mystery of that statement was enough to finally get him to face her again. "Explain," he demanded harshly.

"An hour or two after we resuscitated you, the Minister of Magic arrived in a state of considerable agitation, asking if you were still alive. It seems that as soon as your heart stopped beating, a small box materialized on his desk, containing a number of small flasks. Each one contained a memory. Dumbledore's memories." She smiled. "He said that if the memories were proven genuine and untampered with, he would grant you clemency."

Instead of relief and joy at the news that he was 'off the hook', so to speak, that now she wasn't the only one who knew he wasn't a traitor, there was a thin-lipped, bitter smirk on his face.

"That's good news, isn't it, sir?" She was puzzled.

"He promised to come back and tell you when they have concluded examining the evidence." She looked at him as if debating if she should go on, biting her lower lip. When she finally spoke again, the words came haltingly. "There is a bit of bad news, though, sir. They rounded up every known Death Eater's possessions and auctioned them off for victims's restitution."

"So my house is gone." Snape looked at her through narrowed eyes.

She bit her lip again. "Well, no, sir. No one wanted your house, I'm afraid." She looked at him apologetically. "But there isn't much left in it. I bought some of your books. – I'll return them, of course," she added hastily.

She held her breath for a moment until the words burst out. "I'm sorry. It's not fair." Her eyes fired up. "I can't believe Dumbledore would wait until you were dead to let everyone know what really happened. This could have all been avoided. That he would have let everyone go on thinking you were the worst kind of wizard, when you were so brave… it wasn't –" She bit her lip again.

_Not fair. Not smart._ He could almost hear her thoughts. Snape's features hardened. "He could not risk exposing my position."

"Well, he could have had those memories appear once Riddle was dead just _as_ well, couldn't he?" she said rebelliously. "It would have been safe then."

"You speak out of ignorance." His voice was rock hard, derision in every syllable. The sort of magic that involved suspending an object in time and space until the cessation of someone's vital signs required close physical proximity to the person the spell was tied to during the casting process. Dumbledore had not had that sort of access to Voldemort.

He closed his eyes. It sounded just like the old fool to do something like this. He remembered the conversation, after he had finally given in to the old man's constant harangue…

"_It is too bad, I suppose, that the world will remember me as The Traitor,' he had said, the words tasting like wormwood. "That when the history books are written, that is how I will go down for posterity." _

_Dumbledore had cast him a glance of sympathy shot through with sadness. "I promise you, I will not let that happen."_

After four years on the run, he supposed he could be forgiven for thinking that the old man had simply not gotten around to making provisions to fulfill that promise. He had waited for a letter to surface, for someone to speak out who had been trusted with the secret, but there had been nothing. And so, at the last possible second, he had taken matters into his own hands…

His face tightened as if in pain.

"Do you need some more pain potion, sir?" The voice of the girl, full of concern, interrupted his thoughts.

"I do not need your help _or_ your pity, Miss Granger," he said harshly

He could hear her huff in exasperation, and then it was quiet for a while. Finally. He turned his head again. Maybe he could finally get some more sleep.

Half an hour later he was still awake, every muscle tensed. Whatever pain potion or spell she had used was wearing off, and the up-to-now bearable pain was growing worse by the second, stabbing, stinging, needle-sharp. He drew a hissing breath when a bolt forked through his system, jagged and lightning-hot.

The girl pounced on him. "Sir?" The beading of cold sweat on his face told her all she needed to know. She pulled her wand out and pointed it at his midsection, muttering incantations. The pain lessened marginally, then returned with a vengeance.

"Useless," he gasped. "Give me your wand."

She moved back a step, her eyebrows raised in alarm. "You are not to have a wand until the Ministry says it's all right. I'm sorry. I'll be right back with a potion."

"Or you could trust me." The words came out harshly, challenging, the look in his eyes telling her that right now she would be required to back up her bluster with action.

"I'm sorry, I can't," she said miserably, backing up. "I promise, I'll be right back."

He closed his eyes, bracing against the pain, a bitter grimace on his face. So much for all her words...

Suddenly, he felt something slim and hard being pressed into his hand. He opened his eyes in surprise. "I do trust you," she whispered, and her eyes were bright.

He inhaled deeply as his fingers closed tightly around the wand. It felt good in his hand. As he lifted it and began muttering a sing-song incantation under his breath, she turned and disappeared into the bathroom. He could feel his muscles relaxing, the spasms loosening, as the spell began its work. When he finished, the pain had receded into the distance, and he lay quiet, bone-tired and exhausted.

She returned with a cool, damp cloth in her hand. "You will have to teach me that spell," she said in a casual voice, trying to cover the sudden awkward silence. "When you are better." There was challenge in her eyes now, too, as she, with practiced, gentle motions, wiped the sweat from his face. "Truce?"

The cool cloth felt good against his skin. He closed his eyes as he handed her her wand back, and within a minute, he was asleep.

* * *

A/N: Duj – I think every country has its hell-holes, those places you wouldn't want to go if you can at all avoid it. Persephone Lupin – thanks for the tip, I didn't even know such a setting existed! Tells you how much I know. I have now enabled anonymous reviews. Hulahula – I really don't know where I am going with the two of them. We'll see what happens! 

Everyone – thank you so much for reviewing, you make my day! I have two more chapters planned, and that, I think, will be all! Next chapter - Harry Potter shows up.


	4. Think, Potter

It was hard to tell time in the small, closed room. He felt like he had barely been asleep for an hour when the door opened and a crowd entered – obviously, the morning shift had arrived. Two Healers and several nurses convened by the side of his bed. The girl stood up from the cot and joined them.

"Well, well, Mr Snape," the older one of the Healers said in an over-hearty voice, consulting the chart in his hand. "Looks like we are doing much better."

Snape scoffed inwardly. The Healer might be doing better; personally, he still felt like hell.

"The temperature's down, the injuries are mending nicely – we might actually be able to try some food today. A bland, soft diet, Madam Granger, and let's see if we can't put a bit of weight back on those bones, shall we? Well, Mr Snape, I leave you in Madam Granger's capable hands."

He had an acid comment all ready on his tongue when he swallowed it at the last second. True, Miss Granger was not his idea of the ideal caregiver, but if someone like this condescending idiot was the alternative, he knew which he preferred.

She left with the contingent, and returned a few moments later carrying a tray with a covered dish and several potion vials. Setting down the tray on his nightstand, she turned to him with a determined look. "If you are going to get back on your feet, you need to eat. Now, you had quite a bit of damage to your inner organs, and you haven't had anything other than doses of potion and a bit of water by mouth for the last four days. So I think we should proceed slowly. These first." She handed him two vials. "One to help with pain, the other for nausea. But you know that, of course, Professor."

"I am not a professor any more," he said, bite to his voice. "I haven't been a professor in years."

She grinned. "You'll always be Professor Snape. I called you that for six years, and I've always thought of you like that."

His mouth turned down in a bitter smirk. "I find that hard to believe, Granger. I know quite well what my students called me behind my back. _The greasy git. The overgrown bat._ And the worse things I have been called since."

She took the vials back after he had drained them. "I never called you names," she said, her face growing serious. "I may have not thought much of you at times, but I never called you names. – Are you ready to try and sit up?"

Without waiting, she pulled out her wand and with a gentle motion, the head of the bed started to rise. It had only gone up a few inches when he drew in a hissing breath – he didn't care to think what this would have felt like _without_ the pain potion. He had been flat on his back since he had been brought to St. Mungo's, and his abdomen and injured joints, damaged almost beyond repair in the attack, did not take kindly to suddenly being expected to bend.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, sympathy in her voice, as she stopped the motion of the bed. "I know it hurts. Tell me when the pain subsides, and I'll raise you up another couple of inches. I couldn't move you much before without aggravating your injuries. Tomorrow, we'll be starting range of motion exercises. It won't be pleasant, but if you want to regain full use of your limbs, it needs to be done."

A few minutes later, he gave her the signal to continue. It took another ten minutes of dizziness, nausea, and pain before she got him up into a half-sitting position. When she approached him with the cloth to wipe the sweat from his face, he took it from her roughly. "I have full use of my upper body, at least, so I am quite capable of doing this myself. Your fussing is utterly unnecessary."

"Fine." She pressed her lips together. Turning, she lifted the lid off the covered dish. "Do you think you can eat?"

Inside, there was some congealed, sickly-grey blanc-mange. The smell was enough to send his stomach roiling. "Not that," he said flatly.

"Do you always have to be difficult?" Hermione demanded. "I'm afraid your choices are limited."

"There has to be something else."

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. "Alright, then, I'll go and…" At that moment, there was a knock, and before either one could answer, the door was already shoved open.

_Potter._

The young man's face was hard as he stared at the sick man in bed. "Snape." The word was filled with loathing.

"Harry, what are you doing here?" The girl got between them, blocking access to the bed.

"Get out of my way, Hermione. I need to talk to him."

"Did _you _talk to Scrimgeour? Did he tell you?"

"Yes, he did," Harry answered grimly. "And more than that. He let me see the memories."

"Then you know he is innocent."

"Innocent." Harry spat out the words. "He hasn't been innocent since he was a babe in arms. Now get out of the way, or…" He pulled out his wand.

"Go ahead, Potter," Snape's voice sneered from the bed. "I am confined to bed, and I don't have a wand. With luck, you _might_ actually succeed in cursing me this time. That would be a novel experience for you, would it not?"

"Oh stop it, you two," Hermione said in exasperation. "Harry, put that wand away now, or I'll call security. And I mean it."

Reluctantly, the young Auror lowered his arm.

"Why are you here?" she demanded. "If you saw the memories, you know that Dumbledore ordered him to fulfill the Vow. It wasn't his fault."

"Miss Granger, I don't need you to be my advocate," Snape broke in stringently. "If Potter has something to say, let him say it."

"I need some facts. And you better have a damn good explanation." Potter's very stance exuded defiance.

"I don't recall owing you an explanation of any kind," Snape said sharply. "If you ask nicely, Potter, I may answer. If I feel like it." With satisfaction, Snape saw Harry's hand tighten around the wand. "What memories did you see?"

"Mostly talks between you and Dumbledore." Harry stepped closer to Snape's bed. "Mostly about you and Malfoy and the Unbreakable Vow and the order he gave you. But there was one thing…" He stopped, clearly agitated.

"Spit it out, Potter," Snape said snidely. "Kneazle got your tongue?"

Harry was obviously fighting for self-control, his hands in fists at his side. "At one point he said to you 'if you hadn't been there in Godric's Hollow…' I always thought Riddle was alone. But you were there, weren't you? You helped Voldemort kill my parents!"

Snape regarded him for a moment, his lips curled up in disdain. "Think, Potter. I know it isn't your strong point, but indulge me. Dumbledore knew within a short period of time that Voldemort was gone, and he knew exactly what had happened, down to the fact that your mother had sacrificed herself for you. How do you think he knew all that, if all the eyewitnesses were dead?"

"It's 'Voldemort', now, is it? Not the Dark Lord any more?" Harry sneered.

"Are you listening, Potter? Yes, I was there."

Potter had his wand out again, blind rage on his face. "And you let them die, didn't you? You did nothing to save them."

"I was not the secret keeper; I had no idea that the house he was taking me to was where Lily and your father were in hiding. I didn't know until your father opened the door and Voldemort killed him." _The Dark Lord had been in a good mood that evening. He had taken aside his young disciple, and told him to come with him, that he had a special treat for him. But he had not known then what was about to happen._

_He would never forget the horror of that moment, the moment he realized that Lily and her baby were what the Dark Lord was after that night. He had in cold terror watched James fall – not because he regretted his death, but because he knew Lily would be next._

"And then you let him kill my mother, and you would have let him kill me." Potter's voice was icy in judgment.

"Again, Potter, try to engage your miniscule reasoning abilities. Why, do you think, would Voldemort kill your pureblood father without hesitation, but offer to let your Muggle-born mother live? Think!"

Harry stared at him for a moment. "I don't know." He said in a whisper. "I never thought…"

"Of course you didn't think," Snape interrupted him. "That much is obvious. He offered to let her live because I asked for her life. As a reward for services rendered, so to speak." _He had been one of Voldemort's most trusted advisors, even then, the one chosen to infiltrate the enemy's circles. He had brought him the prophecy – oh, what he would give if he could have that moment to do over! – and Voldemort had been more than pleased. He had offered him any reward, within reason. He had declined, at the time._

"You. Trying to save her." Harry's voice was dripping with disbelief. "Why would you try to save the filthy' mudblood'? I remember what you called her."

"Believe it or not, Potter, we both grew up in our last two years. Your mother was a friend of sorts." _He had been angry, embarrassed at having this Gryffindor girl defend him. He had apologized, awkwardly, in a roundabout way, a few weeks later. She had accepted. When they had been in NEWT level Potions together, fighting for the top spot in the class, a friendly rivalry had developed. James had hated it. _

"I don't believe it. She would have never been friends with a slimeball like you."

"Whether you believe it or not, Potter, doesn't make it any less true," Snape spoke sharply. _It had been a risky move, prostrating himself before the Dark Lord, reminding him of his promise of a reward, and asking for Lily's life. He had worded it wisely, of course. Voldemort had laughed. 'You fancy the mudblood redhead, do you? I shall allow you your little toy, I have no need of her.' It could have just as well cost him his life, speaking up right then, but he hadn't cared. She had been the only one at school to treat him like a human being. She had been kind, and bright, and beautiful. He had loved her, with all his lonely, neglected soul, knowing her an unreachable prize. _

"So you would have saved her and let me die? Is that what you are saying?"

"I tried to save you, all of you. It was I who gave Dumbledore the information that Voldemort was after you. It was my information that sent your parents into hiding in the first place." _It had been the threat to Lily that had sent him back to Dumbledore, offering his services. And Dumbledore believed in one thing – the power of love. When he had seen into Snape's mind, seen what he felt for Lily, he had believed him. He had known that the regret he felt at endangering her was as real as the Dark Mark on his arm._ _And so he had become Dumbledore's spy._

"But when push came to shove, you didn't give a damn about my life, did you?"

"I could not save both of you." _And frankly, he hadn't cared. Right then, Lily was all that mattered. Voldemort was after the baby. His life was forfeit. But his mother was expendable in the Dark Lord's plan, there was a chance for her. And so he had thrown himself at Voldemort's mercy, risking his own life, only to watch Lily throw hers away for her son. The hateful brat standing before him now, looking so much like his father it made Snape want to vomit. _

"As if you gave a damn about me, Snape!"

"He did save you, Harry," Hermione spoke up quietly. "Don't you see? If he would have not spoken up for your mother, if Riddle would have just killed her the way he killed your father, you would have died, too. It was because she was given a _choice_ that the old magic was invoked that protected you. If he had not been there, she would have not been given that choice. He did save you."

"You stay out of it, Granger," Snape snarled at her. _God, the last thing he needed was another Muggle-born Gryffindor girl defending him. _

"If he saved me, it was purely by accident," Harry said bitterly. "Remember, it was Hagrid who rescued me from the rubble of the house. If you were really on the good side, Snape, why did you not take me to Dumbledore after my mother was dead and the curse rebounded on Riddle? Instead you left me there to die."

"Did you ever think, Potter, why the house _was_ reduced to rubble? A normal Avada Kedavra doesn't do that, " Snape cut in sharply. Seeing the blank look on Harry's face, he continued, derision in his voice. "When the curse rebounded, it released an enormous amount of energy, enough to blast the house to rubble along with Voldemort's body. Your mother's sacrifice protected you even from that; I had no such protection. You were buried in the rubble, and I was in no shape to come to your assistance. I barely made it back to Hogwarts to give report to Dumbledore. I spent over a month in the hospital wing." _He had been injured, grieving, hurting in body and in soul, knowing that he was to blame for Lily's death. He had never fully recovered. But one thing he had sworn to himself, that Lily's sacrifice would not be in vain, that he would honor her memory. And he had, from that point on, protected her brat. Oh, he had hated him, for living when his mother had died. He had hated him every time Lily's eyes looked out at him from James Potter's face. But he had done his best to save the fool from any true harm, despite the boy's persistence in going off on harebrained schemes on a regular basis. The reckless Gryffindor._

Harry looked at him, for the first time uncertainty on his face. "You lie, Snape."

"He's telling the truth, Harry," Hermione said softly. "Don't ask me how I know, but I do."

"Miss Granger, I told you to stay out of it."

"It was he, Harry, who helped us that last year of the war," Hermione continued undauntedly. "Those hints that helped you find the Horcruxes? The warnings of Death Eater attacks? The way Ginny was mysteriously freed when she was taken captive a month before the final battle? He did all those things."

Harry was silent. It was, Snape thought, quite satisfying to for once see him slowly deflate, the air taken out of his sails. "You saved Ginny?" he asked in a near whisper.

"I did." The words came from Snape's lips unwillingly.

"You saved my wife." Harry's lips moved stiffly, disbelievingly, and his shoulders sagged. Snape could almost see his presuppositions crumbling.

Hermione walked over and pulled him into a hug. "Leave now, Harry," she said gently. "Think about this some more later. You have hated him long enough. It's time to let go."

"I don't know if I can," Snape heard Harry whisper.

"Try." She held him tightly. The young Auror stood quietly in Hermione's arms for a minute, his face contorted with emotion. Finally, he gave Hermione a final squeeze and stood up straight. He swallowed hard, gave one nod in Snape's direction, and left without another word.

Hermione gave a breath of relief and turned back to her patient.

"He married her, did he?" Snape said with a sneer.

Hermione nodded. "Two years ago."

Snape smirked. "If I would have known I was saving her for a fate worse than death, I might have reconsidered."

"You," Hermione said sternly, the tone of her voice undermined by the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "are absolutely despicable. Just so you know. Sir." Her voice softened. "How are you? It must have been hard to talk about this. And you still so ill."

There it was, that look on her face again. Snape turned his head away, suddenly exhausted, physically and emotionally drained.

He flinched when he felt her hand on his shoulder.

"I told you, I don't need your pity," he said bitterly.

"Tomorrow," she said conversationally, as she awkwardly patted his shoulder, "I shall bring you a dictionary so you can look up the definitions for 'pity' and for 'empathy'. It is high time you learned the difference. And now, I'll get you something to eat."

* * *

There, a nice long chapter! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! One more chapter to go. So what do you think about my theory about what really happened in Godric's Hollow? 


	5. Starting Over

She had been grossly understating the matter when she had talked about the range-of-motion exercises as being "unpleasant." A hangover was unpleasant. A blister was unpleasant. This was torture. Every session left him shaking with exhaustion and covered in perspiration.

First, there was a massage to limber up muscles and joints, then the grueling stretching exercises themselves.

He had baulked at first. "Isn't there someone else who can do this?" It seemed…too personal, to be touched by her like this. She had smiled and ignored him.

Now, two days later, he could still feel color flushing his face as she sat down at the end of the bed, pulled the covers to the side, and matter-of-factly lifted his foot into her lap. She pretended not to notice his embarrassment as she pulled out a jar of potion and started to rub the ointment into his toes and his instep.

"By the way, I ran into Molly Weasley this morning. She is threatening a visit, now that she found out that she owes you the life of her only daughter." She grinned at him. "I thought it best to warn you."

He groaned. Then winced as she started working her fingers firmly into the tight muscles of his calf. "Once you get one Weasley, there is usually another one right behind. Will I have to suffer an invasion of the whole clan?" Somehow, carrying on a conversation on an unrelated subject made the fact that she was manhandling his lower extremities easier to bear. Less personal. He was grateful for that. And her fingers, massaging the soreness and stiffness out of his muscles, were skilled and capable. He felt himself relax.

She laughed. "You might. I'm afraid you have become a Weasley personal hero as of late. Ginny will want to stop by, for certain." She worked the ointment over his knee, gently stretching and pushing the ligaments and tendons. "She's rather pregnant at the moment, and it isn't easy for her to get around. The baby is due in less than two weeks."

_Just what the world needs. A Weasley-Potter hybrid._ He snorted. "What about Potter's red-headed side-kick? I haven't heard you mention him."

She bent her head low, her hair falling over her face so he couldn't see her expression. "Ron died," she said quietly. "During the last battle. We were engaged to be married."

There was a short, awkward pause. "I apologize," he said stiffly. "I didn't realize…"

"It's all right," she said, looking back up, her face sweet with pain. "It was so many years ago."

"Still. I _am_ sorry."

She gave a small nod. "Thank you." With practiced hands, she continued to massage the potion into his leg. "It was rough at first. Every day seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. There were days I wasn't sure I would make it…" She paused before looking up at him quickly. "But you know what it's like. You've lost someone you love."

It was his turn to look away now. She gazed down at him with a soft ache in her chest. At least she had had friends and family to help her through the hard times. He had had no one.

"Did you ever tell her?" she asked softly. "The way you felt about her?"

Abruptly, he turned his head to face her again, the expression on his face as hard and bitter as his voice. "Why would I? She was clever, beautiful, popular, with a kind heart and a charming personality. All I ever was was clever. I might as well have wished for the moon."

"You said she was a friend…"

"_Of sorts._ As I said, I was clever." His voice was acidic. "She had some use for my company, for the sort of intellectual back and forth that was not exactly her Quidditch-obsessed boyfriend's forte. And she _was_ kind." He said the words as if they had a bad taste to them. "But take a good look, Miss Granger, and tell me that any woman in her right mind would want _this_." His eyes were icy. "Not even your idealistic little heart could be delusional enough for that. And from now on, I would appreciate it if you would confine yourself to topics that might even remotely be your concern. Or even better, don't talk at all."

She ignored the jibe. "You don't give yourself enough credit, sir," she said lightly. "You're not really all that bad."

With a bitter snort, he turned his face to the wall again, obviously done with the conversation.

Hermione quietly continued in her work, smoothing the ointment over his skin, loosening his corded muscles. At least he_ had_ talked to her—the fact that he had said as much as he did must mean he was getting more comfortable with her, in spite of his bluster.

Whatever he might think of her, she personally was becoming rather fond of him. He was a fighter, working himself to the edge of his endurance to get better. He might complain endlessly about minor, unimportant things like the temperature in the room or the quality of the food, but he bore true pain stoically. She knew him well enough by now to know that he took compliments badly—but one day, she hoped that he would be able to see that he wasn't bad at all. That he was someone well worth knowing. That he was brave and loyal and strong as well as clever. That he had more courage than ten other wizards combined. And that once you'd seen his true colors, he didn't look so ugly any more.

-----

A week later, the patient was able to stand up and walk a few steps with assistance. It galled him to have to lean on her, but walk he must, if he ever wanted to get out of here.

He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, noticing with disgust how shaky his knees still were.

"Very good," the girl said encouragingly. "It's amazing how far you have come in such a short amount of time."

He didn't answer, sweat beading up all over his face. Each step still felt as if he were walking on broken glass. But she was right; compared to a few days ago, he was much improved. She led him over to the bed and supported him as he sat down. "Can I get you anything?" she asked as she handed him the cloth to wipe off his face.

He shook his head. "No." Exhausted, he leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes as she pulled the blanket up over him. There was a knock on the door. He cursed quietly under his breath. The last thing he wanted right now was company.

"Tell whoever it is to go away," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

"I don't think that is a good idea," she said quietly as the door opened. The odd tone in her voice made him open his eyes.

Scrimgeour.

"_Mr Snape_." The false, practiced smile of the professional politician plastered on his face, the lion-maned Minister of Magic stepped through the door, inclining his head at the convalescent. With a wave of his wand, he conjured up a comfortable chair and made himself at home. "I thought I would come to see you in person to inform you about the outcome of our deliberations regarding your case." The way he lifted his bushy eyebrows made it clear that he expected Snape to keenly feel the honor of being thus visited. "Erm, Miss…?" He looked condescendingly at the girl. "If you have other duties to attend to, this would be a good time to leave, as I have private things I wish to discuss with Mr Snape here?"

"She is my caregiver," Severus interrupted him shortly. "Anything you have to say can be said in her presence." He was not going to be left alone with Scrimgeour if he could help it. He did not trust the Minister any farther than he could throw him. Which in his present state was not very far at all.

"Very well," the man said with a slightly disgruntled expression. The girl turned and busied herself with setting to order a shelf on the wall which held assorted jars and vials. Scrimgeour cleared his throat as he looked back at Snape. "Very well, then. I am pleased to inform you that the memories of the late Albus Dumbledore were examined in detail and found genuine and untampered with. In view of this new evidence, I have granted you an executive pardon. When you are well again, you will be free to go wherever you please."

He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a package. Carefully, he began to unwrap it. "Which brings me to another topic. Regretfully, based on the information we had at the time, we have auctioned off the majority of your belongings. No buyer was found for your house, so the dwelling has remained in the Ministry's inventory. We are pleased to return it to you." He placed two keys on the bedside table.

"What about the rest of my belongings? Will those be returned?"

"I'm afraid," Scrimgeour said smoothly, "that the statute of limitation for wrongful seizure of assets is only one year, and has long since expired. I regret that things are quite out of my hands as far as _that_ is concerned. We are not obligated at all to even return the dwelling at Spinner's End into your possession, but it seemed the least we could do in view of the regrettable mix-up."

Snape uneasily noticed the girl's face had taken on a markedly fixed expression, and that a dull red color was slowly rising in her cheeks. He fervently hoped she would be able to keep her mouth shut just this once. The last thing he needed was for her to embarrass and humiliate him in front of the Minister. But if past experience was anything to judge by, that particular hope was bound to be a futile one.

"Then," Scrimgeour continued, "there is the matter of your wand. As all charges against you have been dropped, it has been decided to return it to you at this time." He placed the slim black rod next to the keys on the bedside table. "I hope that pleases you."

Snape had to restrain himself from grasping at it immediately. His _wand. They had returned his wand. _With an effort, he turned his face away, back towards the Minister. Looking at him with a tight, mocking smile, he asked, "I assume an article regarding my newly established innocence will appear in the _Daily Prophet_ within the next day or two?"

Scrimgeour squirmed slightly. "As the events regarding your capture would place the Ministry in an undeserved bad light—you understand, I am sure, that we are not to blame in assuming your loyalty to Riddle under the circumstances—and we are still trying to recover credibility from the many years of mismanagement under my predecessor…" He delicately trailed off.

"I understand," Snape said coldly. "If that is all?"

"There is," Scrimgeour continued, pulling a small pouch out of his robe pocket, "one more small matter. I have a certain amount of galleons available in the Ministerial budget to spend at my discretion, and in expectation of your continued _cooperation _and understanding, the Ministry would be happy to provide you with some help in starting over, as a token of our good will?" He discreetly placed the pouch next to the keys and wand.

Staring at the pouch, Snape would have liked nothing so much as to throw the coins at Scrimgeour's dragon-hide-booted feet and tell him to go to hell. But beggars can't be choosers. If he were to go home, he would at least need some money for potion ingredients and equipment so he could start supporting himself again. And his Gringotts vault was as empty as a politician's promises. He nodded shortly, swallowing his pride along with the bile rising in his throat. "If you are finished…?"

"I am." Scrimgeour rose, and with a wave of his wand the chair disappeared. He stopped at the door, a glib smile on his face. "All that remains is to wish you all the best for your recovery. A good day to you."

The door had barely closed behind him when the girl exploded. "_Who the bloody hell does he think he is, the toad-livered, slime-covered, imbecilic…_"

Snape listened with wry amusement as the list went on for a while. For someone he had always considered fairly genteel, she had a quite extensive vocabulary of swear words. Well, being close friends with Ron Weasley for so long, she was bound to have picked up a few gems along the way…

She was slowly working herself up into a state of righteous indignation. "_…I am not going to let him get away with this_! I'll get Harry to write an article for the _Quibbler_. Or something like that...Luna will help... To let the whole world keep right on thinking you are evil personified…it's just _wrong_! And there has to be something we can do to get your things back. Petition the individuals that bought your belongings, appeal to their better selves…it simply isn't right….You don't _deserve_ that sort of treatment, after all that you did…"

With alarm, Snape realized he was about to become a Project.

"You will do no such thing," he cut her off sharply in the middle of her tirade. He only too well remembered her S.P.E.W. year. This needed to be nipped in the bud. "I am an adult, I am perfectly capable of supporting myself, and the last thing I want is to make it appear as if I am some sort of charity case. All I want is to be left alone. Your interference is not needed, desired, or appreciated, nor is Mr Potter's. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

She pressed her lips together tightly. "Yes, sir," she ground out.

"Good. As long as this is understood." He leaned his head back against the pillow, weariness claiming him as the tension of the confrontation slowly left his body.

The fire drained out of her eyes, to be replaced with concern. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine," he said shortly.

"I _am_ sorry," she said contritely. "I wasn't thinking. Here I am going on an on, and all you want is some peace and quiet. You need to rest. Is there anything I can get you before I go, anything you want? Something to eat, a cup of tea?"

"I could do with a cup of tea," he said. God, he was tired.

"Coming right up," she said with a small smile and disappeared through the door. She came back a few moments later holding a tray with a small pitcher of milk, a spoon, a teabag on a saucer—and a cup filled with cold water.

He looked at her questioningly.

With a twinkle in her eyes, she picked up his wand and put it in his hand. "_You_ make the tea." Briefly, she rested her small hand over his and gave it a light squeeze. "I'll leave you be now. Drink your tea, and then get some sleep. That's an order. Sir."

His fingers closed around his wand as she walked out the door, and he took a long, measured breath as something tight and heavy lifted off his chest. He could sense the magic in himself focus as he tightly grasped the handle. It was only a cup of tea, a simple heating spell—but he could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He was finally a wizard again.

-----

Only a few days later he was reading in a chair by the bed when she came in, holding a bundle neatly wrapped in brown paper in her arms. "Morning, Professor." She placed the bundle on the bed next to him. "I think you'll be happy to hear that Healer McKenna feels that you have progressed enough to go home. Here's your clothes. I've taken the liberty of getting them mended, cleaned, and pressed. Hope you don't mind." She stepped back as he uncertainly looked at the package.

"Did _you_ do the mending, cleaning, and pressing?" He didn't need yet another thing to be beholden for.

She laughed. "No, sir. Heavens, no. My knowledge of household spells is dismal as can be. No, this is Dobby's handiwork. Did you know that he lives with Harry and Ginny now? He was more than pleased to take on this assignment, once he found out you saved his mistress's life."

Snape unwrapped the package and ran his hand over the heavy wool. All of a sudden, he couldn't wait to get dressed. He would look like himself again, not like some helpless invalid. Painfully, slowly, he levered himself up from the chair. The girl made no attempt to help him up, nor was she offering to help him with getting dressed. Good. She was learning.

He came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, wearing his own robe and cloak. It was such a relief just to be out of the blasted hospital gowns. The weight and sway of the fabric made him stand up straighter, feel taller. She looked at him shyly when he emerged through the door.

"Why is it that all of a sudden I feel like a first year again?" She smiled up at him. "I shall miss you, you know."

He snorted at that._ Right._

She took a deep breath. "Well, goodbye, sir," she said. "What will you do now?"

_I am going to go home_, he thought. _Back to my shabby, deserted house, in my shabby, deserted town. I will somehow start to build a life again. I will figure out what to do with myself now that no one is hunting me and no one needs me. _Suddenly, the future seemed to stretch out bleakly before him, the years reaching empty from horizon to horizon... He shook off the feeling with an irate jerk of his head. "Go home," he said shortly.

There was awkward silence for a moment. Then, "Will you be all right?" she asked haltingly. He could see the concern on her face.

"I'll be fine." _I am not about to become a burden on the wizarding public. I can brew potions to sell through apothecary shops. I won't starve. Don't you worry your pretty little head about me. Once I walk out that door, I won't be your problem any more. _

She nodded. "Good luck, then." Suddenly, she stood up on tiptoes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek as his eyes widened in surprise and he took a quick, involuntary step back. "Take care of yourself, sir. Don't forget to do your exercises, at least for another two weeks. And don't be a stranger."

The corners of his mouth turned down. Pretty words, words she could not possibly mean. She would be only too glad to get rid of her unpleasant patient. He looked at her again. She _had_ been kind. It was her job, of course, but she_ had_ been kind. He nodded, and turned to leave.

-----

_Good-bye for now, Professo_r, she thought, looking on as his stiff black back retreated slowly and haltingly down the corridor. _But I will see you again. _

It seemed odd to think that out of all the people on the planet, she knew him better than anyone, knew secrets and memories he would never share with anyone else. And she was only too aware that he hated the fact that she knew. But he needed someone to look after him. And she was just the Gryffindor to do it.

She knew where he lived. In a day or two, she would stop by, purely in a professional role, of course, to see how he was faring. And then again, a day or two after that. He was too much of a gentleman to throw her out.

And once he really _wa_s well again—there were still quite a few advanced medicinal potions that she had trouble brewing. And he was an expert. If she asked him the right way, he would offer to help. Grudgingly and with any number of insults to her professional abilities, of course, but he would offer.

And then, maybe one day, once they had known each other for a while, she would find an interesting article in Practical Potions, and she would Firecall to ask his opinion. And then tell him that talking over the Floo was too awkward, and would he like to come over for a cup of tea so they could finish their discussion? And he would come. Grudgingly and with any number of jeers at her limited intelligence, of course, but he would come. And things would go from there.

Hermione looked at his retreating back and smiled. He was a friend already—he just didn't know it yet. But one day he would. Oh, yes, he would.

The End


End file.
